


For the Realm (Jonsa)

by lioness47



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cousin Incest, F/M, Marriage Proposal, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-22 07:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17658956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lioness47/pseuds/lioness47
Summary: The White Walkers have been defeated and Jon has married Daenerys. He knows his parentage, but has not revealed it at Dani's request. When she suddenly dies, Jon tries to persuade the one woman he's really wanted all along, to rule by his side.





	1. Chapter 1

### Part I: Halting Chaos

“Promise me.”

_No, please,_ he prayed to the Old Gods, the New, whoever listened. _Don’t let her die._

She made a strangled noise, trying to draw breath, and he couldn’t help her. Like Ygritte, all over again. With a damned arrow, all over again.

But this time, she was his queen. His wife.

“Promise me, Jon. All seven kingdoms.”

How could he deny her deathbed wish? Though they’d fought over how to rule which kingdoms every day of the short marriage. Had it only been a fortnight? 

“Dani, I-” he faltered. “Shh…” 

It was all happening too fast for his brain to accept. A nobody, a nameless Dothraki with a vendetta, one of her _own_ , shot an arrow. He took down the most powerful Queen _or_ King Westeros had seen in centuries. 

_No, no, no._ That couldn’t be her end, powerful rulers didn’t die like that. 

Through Jon’s shock, the memory of Tywin Lannister’s death on a chamber pot came to mind. 

Yes, they could. 

Or - was the shot even meant for her? It seemed equally aimed at him. Daenerys had moved so fast, it would be just like her to take the risk. Did she put her body in front of his own death sentence? 

_You know nothing Jon Snow._

They never would know, because Ser Jorah cut the man in two with one powerful swing of his sword, before Daenerys even collapsed into Jon’s arms. 

He was barely aware of the spectacle they made on the dusty road. Jon only saw Daenerys, limp and fading before him. 

“Promise me, Jon,” she whispered the words a third time. He would have agreed then. Despite their disagreements, he loved her, he did, and she was dying in his arms. Maybe to save his life. He would have agreed, before she even said the words which he made him flinch, because wounding her wounded him. And in this subject he couldn’t stop it, though the gods knew he tried. 

“I know it’s always been her.” 

“Shh…” he said, rocking her small body like a child. He would have promised her anyway. But he couldn’t deny the guilt that wracked his heart at the truth from her lips. It gave him the final push to speak the words. 

“I promise. I’ll keep all seven kingdoms together.” 

#

“The funeral is tonight,” Jon said, slinging his tangled furs over his shoulders and tightening the belt where Longclaw hung at his hip. He had to keep moving or he felt as if he couldn’t breathe. 

“Ser Davos.” He turned to his newly-appointed Hand of the King. “How many ships leave each day to ferry the Unsullied and Dothraki back to Essos?” 

“Ten, your grace.” 

“Double it.” 

“I’ll see to it,” Ser Davos promised. 

“Thank you.” Jon clapped his hand on Davos’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Keep everyone from killing each other, until I return.”

“Aye,” Ser Davos said, with more than a touch of sadness. King’s Landing was safe under his command – at least for a short time. There was no better Hand of the King. With Samwell installed as the new maester, and Tormund as Lord Commander of his kingsguard (be it, a very unconventional commander), everyone he needed, everyone the _realm_ needed, was right where they should be, where they could do the most good. 

Except for one person.

Jon made to leave the room, countless preparations needing his attention for Daenerys’s send off. She was more than a ruler of Westeros, she was a Queen of two worlds, a savoir of lands both West _and_ East. As such, he planned to lay her to rest in the narrow sea, between the realms, forever watching over each kingdom she changed for the better. 

“There will be no viewing period, your grace?” Davos Seaworth asked. 

Jon turned his head back and spoke the words firmly, even as his shoulders slumped. “There’s no Sept, and there’s no time. I ride tomorrow.”


	2. Chapter 2

### Part II: An Offer of Merit

Ride might not have been the best word. Although he technically rode _on_ Drogon, together, they flew. Covering distance in hours that would have taken weeks on horseback. 

Surely ravens had arrived at Winterfell by now. Requesting – no – he supposed _commanding_ an audience with Sansa. He was sure she would see it that way, regardless of his intentions. 

Guilt pinched his heart once more. Daenerys knew he would go to her. But he also knew she would want it so. The best way to honor her would be to _not_ let the kingdom they fought so hard to save fall into ruin. Mourning could wait. 

At least he already wore black. 

#

Not much had changed in the great hall of Winterfell since he last crossed the ancient stone floor. He imagined it looked much the same for generations of Starks, and the thought brought him comfort. At least one thing remained constant through so much chaos. 

There were, of course, some relatively newer faces gracing the hall, but that too brought him comfort, as they were no different than when he last departed. 

Still, he would have preferred a private audience with his cousin. 

Jon approved of Lord Yohn Royce, sitting as advisor on Sansa’s left. Brianne of Tarth, in full armor – Jon wondered if she ever took it off – stood to the right, guarding the room with watchful eyes. He was grateful Bran and Arya were not present, though he wondered where they might be instead. Set on a task at Sansa’s command? 

Jon shifted, and the airy hall of his family home echoed with the movement. It seemed he would have to begin. 

“Sansa,” Jon broke the silence. 

“Your grace,” she replied, coolly. Not with deference, but defiance. Putting a wall of formality between them. 

Jon’s shoulder’s slumped, “San-” He closed his eyes, took a breath, and started again. “Lady Stark. We’ve defeated the walkers, but the realm is in chaos. Once-great houses fight amongst themselves for power. With the earth scorched, we don’t have enough food to feed the men we’ve left. We need to help settle those who want to stay, and we need to ferry those who don’t back to Essos. Daenerys is gone,” Jon heard the sorrow in his own voice as he said the words aloud, but he would not – could not – afford to give himself over to grief.

“We need to come together now. I returned to Winterfell to seek your help.”

The speech felt familiar to him. Because it was, he realized. Not that long ago, he’d pled his late wife with the same heartfelt truths. Was he doomed to forever repeat history? The women he loved, dying in his arms? Standing before commanders, begging their help? 

But no, Sansa wasn’t like Daenerys. Sansa didn’t rule by blood and fire. She governed in a slower, more calculating manner. A chilling stare and a cold plan. The ice in her blood more closely matched his own. He just wouldn’t let himself acknowledge it before.

Before, when he didn’t know the truth…

“I’m not your enemy,” Jon said.

“You’re not my brother, either,” Sansa replied. 

Jon startled. So, she knew. As did everyone now standing in this room. He took a minute to recover. Well, that was at least one thing he didn’t have to discuss on this journey. 

“My king?” She said the last word as a question, there was little doubt. “It’s interesting that you bent the knee on behalf of the north… only to then find yourself sovereign of all a short time later. Rather convenient.” 

“I know how it must seem,” Jon protested. “But I’m not here as your king.”

Sansa drew a breath and declared, “not my enemy, not my brother, not my king. Tell me then, in what capacity are you here? As what?”

“As Jon,” he said evenly, and he could tell that threw her in the way she pursed her lips. Drawing inward was her style. She didn’t breathe fire when caught off guard or challenged. She closed upon herself. 

And yet, he wasn’t entirely right to cast her as thus. The Tully hadn’t made her a cold fish in an icy stream, the Stark hadn’t shaped her into a lone wolf on a frosty night. He wouldn’t be here if that were the case. 

That was just the side her enemies saw. 

He knew within her the warmth, the love that fueled the fierce Tully loyalty, the brave Stark leader. Both bound by honor to their kin. 

It’s just he wanted her bound in a very different role now. 

“I came here, to ask for your help-” he began. 

“You came here to claim a bride,” Sansa said. 

Jon hadn’t forgotten the bluntness of her tongue. It was one of the reasons he loved her. But she wasn’t right. 

“I came here to ask if you’ll join me, as… as husband and wife, back in King’s Landing, aye.” He really hated saying this with a bloody audience. “But I didn’t come here to force you. With all due respect, I could. But I won’t. I came here to ask if you’ll marry me, of your own free will.” 

Lord Yohn Royce looked surprised, but not disapproving; Brienne, as if a putrid dish had been placed under her nose – he hoped it wasn’t a personal dislike, just her general distaste for marriage or affection of any kind. 

But Sansa only templed her fingers and considered him, a gesture of quiet power. 

“I do not accept your proposal,” Sansa said, and Jon felt like he’d taken a blunt hit to his stomach, before she uttered her next words. 

“But I will accompany you to King’s Landing and see for myself any merits it may have worth considering.” 

He exhaled in relief. It was a start. 

#

It wasn’t an understatement to say Sansa’s heart flew – up, up- gliding upon cool winds as the air beneath her swelled and rose, wings carrying her further from the ground. Something held tight within her began to loosen, something began to uncurl and relax, like a wolf before the fire. 

Hadn’t she always wanted this? And yet, it was more than she could ever imagine. She had been a foolish girl, given to childish flights of fancy, but no dragons existed in her idle days of youth and stupidity, so how could she have ever dreamed up a prince coming to carry her away to his castle on the back of his dragon?

After everything that happened to her, it seemed she still had the capacity to be surprised. Delighted. Unable to deny the giddiness that sparked in her hardened heart as rivers below churned and widened and rushed south, as if calling them to race. A fantasy beyond imagining, with a dark prince, nay, a king behind her. 

Except he was her brother. 

Except he wasn’t.


	3. Chapter 3

### Part III: The Crown Rests Lightly

“What have you come for?” Sansa asked, wary, as Tyrion strolled into her chambers. She’d settled into rooms as far away as possible from those she’d occupied her first time in King’s Landing. 

“I can’t pay a friendly visit to my once-wife?” Tyrion replied. 

“The Queen is dead and the situation so precarious Jon expedited the funeral and brought me here under circumstances of which I suspect you’re aware. I don’t think you’re here to catch up over lemon cakes.” 

Tyrion chuckled. “Forgive me. Sometimes I forget how you’ve grown since I last… since we last…” he fumbled to describe the actual nature of their relationship when she’d first been in King’s Landing. “Since we really had time to spend together. Outside of the White Winter’s War.” 

That’s what they were calling it. And in some ways, that time had been easier. United against a common enemy. But so many people had been lost in the battles. So many great houses destroyed in Cersei and Daenerys’s power grab for the iron throne. So much fertile earth scorched by dragon fire or hardened by dragon ice, not yet bearing fruit.

Now came the hard work of rebuilding. Made harder by the sudden murder of the one person with the right name and power to make the long process easier. 

Unless… Jon revealed his true parentage to the people. That must be his plan. How else could he proceed with a _marriage_ (the word still felt funny) to her?

Did Tyrion know? Most likely. He was not only a kind man, but a lot cleverer than she’d realized as a child. 

“I’m sorry I treated you so poorly, when I was here last. I was young, but. It’s no excuse.” She meant the words, truly. 

Suddenly uncomfortable, Tyrion brushed off her apology. “I’m sure it couldn’t have been easy for you. A girl with dreams of marrying a handsome prince, suddenly wed to a dwarf.” 

“If it makes you feel any better, you being a Lannister frightened me far more than any difference in physical stature. Besides,” Sansa continued, wanting to unsettle Tyrion a little to catch him off guard, “Margaery talked some sense into me and convinced me any apparent inadequacies of height were likely made up for with abundance in… other areas of expertise.” 

Tyrion blushed and seemed unable to continue, and Sansa used that moment to advance. 

“So, you came to talk me into marrying Jon?” she asked, watching him carefully. 

But Tyrion didn’t answer directly. He walked over to the table by the window. Poured a glass of wine. Walked back and sat on a chair facing Sansa. Took a sip. 

“It doesn’t have to be a… _romantic_ union. He’s offering a political alliance. Jon will announce the truth of his parents to the realm. Cleared of close familial relations, he’ll quickly follow-up with a declaration of his intent to keep peace in Westeros with a marriage to the trueborn daughter of Winterfell. Said marriage will take place quickly after that. But. If you prefer, it will be a marriage in name only. He’s not asking… that is, he won’t force you to… if you’d rather not…” 

Sansa knew what the imp was getting at, but made him say it all the same. 

“…He won’t bed you, if you’d rather not.” Perhaps Tyrion thought he’d said it too harshly, because he amended under his breath, “although he certainly wants to bed you.”

It was Sansa’s turn to blush. Tyrion covered his slip with a gulp of wine.

Sansa cleared her throat to recover. “And you’ve come here to persuade me to accept? Tell me, what has he promised you in return, Lord Tyrion?” 

“Nothing, my lady, I assure you.” 

“Come now, everyone in King’s Landing does something only to receive something else.” 

“Not in the King’s Landing Jon is building.” 

Sansa paused. It seemed too idyllic to believe. A child’s dream. 

Tyrion took another fortifying sip of wine. 

“In fact, I have come to ask a second request of you, my lady.”

Sansa stilled, surprised, while Tyrion debated how to begin. 

“You know Ser Davos Seaworth?”

“The Hand of the King,” Sansa replied. He’d been named before the funeral. Suddenly, she understood. “You want me to ask Jon to unname him. Name you his hand.” 

Tyrion shook his head. “I seem to serve queens better than kings. No, I think Ser Davos makes a fine hand. I came, in fact, to ask you to name me your _Queen’s_ hand. If it’s not too strange an idea, seeing as I was once your husband.”

Sansa furrowed her brow and protested, “ _If_ I were to marry Jon, he’d be King and Ser Davos the Hand of the King. There would be no Hand of the Queen.” 

“Under Jon’s rule, there would. He isn’t looking for you to bend the knee. He doesn’t want to subjugate you. He wants to rule with you, as an equal. That’s just one of the many changes he wants to make.”

“Two equal hands. Wouldn’t that lead to arguments between them?” Sansa asked.

“No more than between an equal king and queen,” Tyrion replied, seeming to imply the particular potential for arguing between this _particular_ king and queen. 

“Jon still has the dream of breaking the wheel. He prefers to do it by dismantling some of the power of a singular authority,” Tyrion continued. “Nothing radical, but, small changes. In truth, sharing power will lead to debates and may sometimes be counter to progress. But, there are many benefits to such a rule. No man like Joffrey will ever again sit on the throne with the ability execute a man like Ned, unchallenged." 

Sansa pondered this. “If what you say is true, you’d serve me just days after your late Queen’s death. Does that not bother you, Lord Tyrion?” 

It did. She could see that in the hurt that flashed across his face, the hurt he tried to hide. 

“Daenerys was a conqueror when Westeros needed a conqueror. The realm needs a ruler now. Someone to lead them, to organize, to bring us out of this wet spring into a bountiful summer. If you listen to him, I think you’ll find Jon has other ideas that might surprise you.” 

Sansa considered. “Then let Jon tell me more of these changes himself. Take me to see him.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, yielding to a desire she could barely admit, she felt the surprise release of a pressure inside. Then, as she walked toward his chambers, a different kind of tension rose within, this one like dragonflies fluttering about her stomach. 

_This is Jon_ , she reminded herself. Sullen little Jon, brooding in the corners of the great hall. Just Jon you grew up with… Jon who grew… Jon who grew into a man. A strong man, with dark curls and a broad chest and the ability to swing a sword like a master and lead like he was born for it… which he was.

But what was I born for?

Seven save me, she chided herself, as she simultaneously rejected and relished an answer that echoed in her mind. 

_For him._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bulked up the length and elaborated Jon's feelings, per the feedback, but I didn't want to increase the original five-chapter structure. So bear with me, there is a bit of a switch-y perspective at times, mainly in the flashback. I hope it's not too bumpy to enjoy.

### Part IV: Untold Restraint

Sansa paused in the doorway, surprised. Jon had taken up residence in Tywin’s old chambers, though they looked so different, it was hard to tell. Gone were the lion partitions, the red-and-gold drapes, the lattice work in the windows, filtering the sun. In comparison the room was sparse; the chairs bare of adornment, the walls plain. The simplicity gave the space a Northern look, but lent a sunnier, airier feel to it Sansa liked. 

She noticed Ghost, curled on a pile of furs in the shadows, away from the sun. 

“He doesn’t like the south any more than we do,” Jon said. 

Sansa smiled sadly. “It wasn’t the latitude that bothered me as much as the lies.” 

“I know,” Jon said. “I’d like to change that.”

Sansa ambled toward the small council table, keeping her eyes focused on Jon. 

Jon felt sure as they grew older, her eyes seemed to search, to find him in a room, to hold him in her gaze while he practiced his sword, supped, or even as he simply talked with his brothers. Did her eyes betray what he hoped she felt, but kept hidden? He wondered if she even knew she did it. 

Unless… maybe he was a bloody idiot, and _his_ heart betrayed _his_ head, making _him_ see things that weren’t really there. 

_A wise man once said you should never believe a thing simply because you want to believe it._

Gods, now the dwarf’s counsel came to mind. 

And, Seven hells, maybe he had it backwards entirely. His own eyes never left her. 

Fool. 

But… there was a change in Sansa, to be sure. 

When they were young, he thought - everyone thought - she simply couldn’t be bothered to concern herself with the bastard of Winterfell. Later, he’d begun to wonder if she _pointedly_ ignored him as children. Perhaps it wasn’t passive. He’d begun to suspect she worked to maintain a wall between them. And cracks had always shown. 

A memory came back to him, of the day he’d visited the brothel…

# 

Jon opened his eyes at first light, adjusting to the unfamiliar, feminine room. At least he’d slept. It wasn’t exactly a lie to say he’d slept with her. 

Ros couldn’t decide how she felt about the unexpected turn of events. On the one hand, she got paid, and hadn’t even had to do anything. On the other, it dashed any hopes for a repeat customer. 

She didn’t mind getting an eyeful of his flat midsection, the strong muscles in bare arms – at least he wasn’t shy about sharing her bed in that manner. But, unfortunately, he wouldn’t be bragging about what lay between her legs to the other lords of Winterfell, the way Theon did, sending more business up the dirt road. 

Ros stretched and had to admit it there was a cat-like quality to it. Men were always telling her she moved like a cat, each thinking he the first to say it. Theon was no different. He coupled like a dog, and when she told him so, he’d replied, “aye, and you know what dogs do to cats, don’t you?” 

She laughed like he’d meant to ravish her, a helpless thing, but the dogs and the cats outside her brothel tended to ignore one another, unless a very cold night warranted their cuddling for warmth. 

With a light sigh, Ros drummed her fingers against her smooth thigh. Why did it seem the Theons of the realm couldn’t get enough, and the Jons wouldn’t even have a taste?

#

Jon stood, awkward. 

“I- I’m sorry,” he said. But that didn’t feel right. What was he sorry for? Not bedding her? As if that in some way put her out. 

“Thank you,” he tried instead. But that felt wrong too. What was he thankful for? She hadn’t done anything. 

Ros only smiled, a fetching grin with playful mystery behind it, though the effect was lost on Jon.

“Anytime, love.” 

Jon made a hasty exit and headed straight for the stream outside of Winterfell. 

It wasn’t that he felt dirty, so much as he needed to clear his head. First, his brothers would surely want to know how it went, and he didn’t want to lie any more than he wanted to tell the truth. 

He tossed off his clothes like he could toss off the memory and waded into the cold water. 

Some time later, he heard the footfalls and picked up his head. 

Gone. 

The clothes he’d hung on the branch were missing. 

A high-pitched giggle broke from the trees to the left. 

“Arya!” Jon called, then growled when he realized she meant for him to chase her, or worse, had meant to escape entirely. 

Quickly, he rose from the stream and ran after her bobbing, dark head through the wood. Periodically, she case off a garment he was forced to bend down and pick up, slowing the chase. But his long strides caught up to her in less than a minute, tearing the remaining pile from her hands. He was hurrying to clothe himself when he heard another laugh from behind, this time deep and male. 

Rob and Theon, red-faced from hooting at his foolery. Had everyone at Winterfell decided to wake early this morning? 

It wasn’t his nakedness that amused them so – they’d seen each other in stages of undress before and were no prissy children. It was the sight of him in such a state chasing after their taunting baby sister that set them wild with laughter. 

And worse, the song. 

That bloody song. 

Some bard in the village sang a parody of the well-known _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ called _The Bare Maiden Fair._ It told the story of a tavern wench who found her garments stolen after a bath in the river, and the silly and saucy mishaps that followed as she tried to regain her clothing, in all her naked glory. 

Jon had just unwittingly played the role of the Bare Maiden. 

A fact Theon quickly seized upon. 

“Aye. It’s hilarious,” Jon said, glowering. He stuffed himself back into his breeches and stalked off. 

“Come now, brother!” Rob called after him. But whatever he meant to say to soothe Jon’s temper was lost to another fit of laughter. 

Later, Jon had to admit it wasn’t the worse thing that could have happened. Theon made up a surprisingly poetic rhyme inserting Jon in the starring role of maiden, and taunted him with it whenever he passed the rest of the day. The ordeal and teasing eclipsed his visit to the brothel, which it seemed his brothers had forgotten to ask about it. 

When their father called Arya forth to explain her actions, she said that Sansa told her to do it. Nobody believed Arya. She had a habit of blaming all sorts of creatures for her pranks – even grumkins and snarks. It was also so unlike Sansa to engage in such childishness, and without motivation. Once Arya realized she wasn’t to be punished – Ned found the incident more amusing that alarming – she’d ceased in blaming Sansa and the entire fiasco was soon forgotten by all. 

Until now, when it came to Jon’s mind. 

Because as he ran that day, Jon thought he’d seen a sliver of red hair, hidden behind a cluster of alder trees. What would Sansa have been, at the time? Twelve, nearly thirteen. While Arya was too young to have heard the bawdy ballad possibly inspiring the act, Sansa was not.

Could she have overheard where Jon spent the night prior, and, was it possible she encouraged Arya out of… jealousy? 

#

“Tell me.” 

Sansa’s voice broke through Jon’s thoughts and he re-focused. She wore a light gray gown for the spring weather. The color reminded him of a direwolf, and suited her hair and eyes. 

“Tell me of the changes you plan.” 

Jon nodded, once. “The North will have a Warden of their own choosing. Not appointed by some southern king for favor. Maybe not even a Stark. Although I hope so.” Jon smiled at the end, though it didn’t touch his eyes. “There will, however, always be a spot on the small council for House Stark. For all the great houses. Not appointed. Of their own choosing.”

“It’s not enough,” Sansa said, thinking of her fiercely independent Northmen, whose numbers were now bolstered by like-minded, former Freefolk. 

“No,” Jon agreed. “But it’s a start.”

Sansa ran her fingers idly down the small council table. The sun beamed through windows to her left, Jon stood across the table, to her right. She noticed a thin layer of dust had settled upon its surface when she picked back up her hand. 

“You would need a bigger table,” she observed, and the possible acceptance of the idea gave rise to a feeling of hope in Jon’s chest. 

“We can build one. Round, if you like, so no one sits at the head, not even us.” 

Sansa paused at the last word. 

“So, it’s true then. What Tyrion says. You want a Queen with a Hand of her own?” 

Jon nodded. “Help me build the future together. I can’t do it alone. The South will always see me as the bastard of Winterfell, and the North will come to see me as a Targaryen traitor. People are always eager to believe whatever story quickens the hand to the sword. Help me unite the North and the South, all of the Kingdoms, into a future where we’re not always fighting each other. Where we can create something more.” 

Sansa halted. “You sound like her.” 

Jon knew who she meant. “Aye. We had a similar dream, but. A very different way of getting there.” 

Sansa swallowed. She didn’t like that. And she didn’t like that she didn’t like it. Emotions were a hindrance. 

She pursed her lips, then spoke slowly, trying to keep her voice calm. 

“You left us to join her, even after you knew she was your aunt.” 

Jon’s shoulders fell. “I didn’t want to but, it was the best course of action to keep everything from falling apart. Things could have been so much worse. And I made a vow to my queen I had to honor.”

“I would think honor would stop you from marrying your aunt.”

“Do you think it was easy? I didn’t want to marry her.” He shook his head. “We didn’t… I agreed to marry her in name only. The same… alternative… I’m offering you.”

He hated saying these words. It wasn’t the same. Not at all. He wanted so much more than _in name only_ with Sansa, but he was terrified that offering more than dispassionate, strategic alliances would scare her off. 

Or maybe he was just too craven to tell her. 

From behind, the sun illuminated her red hair, setting it on fire, and he had to clench his fists to stop himself from going over and running his fingers through it.

“And lying to the realm about who you are?” Sansa asked, idly. “How was that honorable?”

“I gave my first life to the Night’s Watch and I’m giving my second to the realm. I don’t owe the seven kingdoms my birth story.”

Sansa didn’t agree. “But you’ll reveal it now?” she asked, eyebrows raised. 

How could he tell her the truth? He hated being dishonest. But to another part of him, the iron throne wasn’t worth exposing the secret Ned held on his behalf for so long. Giving his mother’s tale, his past, to the common folk to do with what they pleased -- stage dramas acting out Lyanna’s death, or using his tragedy to justify this war or that. In a way, sharing his secret made him feel dishonorable to those who lived and died to protect it. 

He knew what Sansa would argue. They did so for the hope that he could reveal it at the right time, at that was now. 

Maybe she was right. A stubborn, temperamental streak in made him not want to. 

The truth was, it wasn’t the iron throne or even the realm that tipped the balance to persuade him. 

The potential of gaining Sansa’s hand made him reconsider. 

But he couldn’t bring himself to say it. 

Instead, he simply replied, “Yes. I - I didn’t want to do it, but I did it and it’s done. We have a chance to build something better now. Something that’s never been seen before. I want… I want to do it with you by my side.” 

Sansa heard a similar dream before. _It’s a pretty picture._

She turned away from Jon, towards the windows, and let the sun caress her face. 

But no, Jon was nothing like Joffrey and nothing like Littlefinger and nothing like most men in Westeros. 

She closed her eyes and basked in the light, wanting to think, wanting to be quiet for moment. Jon did not interrupt her.

When she was ready, she turned back around. 

“Why me? What makes you think marrying me would make it any easier? The Lords of the North might just as soon decide I’m betraying their interests, the common folk may feel marriage between cousins is no longer acceptable. An alliance with me could go either way, you’re taking a risk. How is that a political move, what do you gain?” 

Jon considered her. “Back in Winterfell, you once asked me if it would be such a bad thing to listen to you. I don’t think that it would. I think it would be smart thing, and if you chose not to have a… real marriage, then at least I’d have your counsel. What do I gain, Sansa? You.” 

He could have stopped there. He’d answered her question with an acceptable, formal reply. 

But it wasn’t entirely honest, and Jon typically couldn’t shut his mouth when it came to honesty. Something was left unsaid in the air between them, as they stared intently at one another from opposite ends of the small council table. 

Something he’d been wanting to say for as long as he could remember wanting anything at all. 

Jon closed his eyes. Opened them. “It’s always been you, Sansa.”


	5. Chapter 5

### Part V: Bound Anew

Even on his wedding day he wore black. Strewn with silver-gray thread depicting a direwolf across his chest, and red for the three-headed dragon at his back. 

He looked every bit the handsome prince. Sansa couldn’t deny that. 

She’d chosen a dress somewhere between a light green and gray, a frosted sage that reminded her of the wet earth surrounding Winterfell in the spring. Embroidered on her bodice were intricate trees portraying a forest scene. If one looked closely, a direwolf of House Stark, a Tully-like fish, a bird reminiscent of the Eyrie falcon flew above the trees… Nothing more than a scene from any forest, and yet, to the careful eye, all the sigils of the North cunningly woven into the design. 

Beside her, Jon laughed easily with the other lords at their reception. Truly happy. 

Was she? 

Sansa accepted Jon’s proposal, but gave no indication if it was for politics or passion, and refused to return his feelings. 

She just wasn’t sure if she first refused him – or herself. 

Or rather, deep inside, she knew gazing at Jon’s face set a fire ablaze within her. Her heart sped when he looked back at her and a troupe of mummers flipped across her stomach. But something wouldn’t allow her to accept it. 

_Years of thinking Jon was your brother and a marriage to a man who horribly abused you._

Those weren’t things she could just overcome in a day. 

Although, what was it her mother always said about marriage to her father, about love? 

_We built it slowly, stone by stone, over the years._

In a way, Jon and Sansa already had. In another, they still had years to go.

Sansa sipped her wine as her attention drifted to their guests. Westeros accepted Jon’s true parentage easier than they’d hoped. For one thing, much like Winterfell, the secret was already out to some of the nobles. Whispers always echoed throughout the halls of King’s Landing, nothing could change that. For another, more important reason, tales of a steady, almost reluctant Targaryen ruler appeased the people more than a temperamental, power-hungry one. 

Sansa’s eyes fell upon her sister. Gendry had noticeably perked when Arya arrived. The two sat together, deep in conversation, and Gendry didn’t seem to mind in the least that Arya failed to wear a gown. 

He’d been given a lordship after the White Winter’s War, but still preferred to pass the time at his anvil. Jon had named his Master of the Forge or something like that, in order to keep him close by, and happy. 

Sansa’s hair combs, silver and gold wrought in a swirling pattern, were a gift commissioned by Gendry from a friend. She wore them now atop two braids on either side of her head. 

A loud chuckle turned her head in the opposite direction, and Sansa saw Ser Bronn and Lord Tyrion sharing a joke. No – she had forgotten – Lord Bronn now. The gossipy story was practically legendary. Bronn had been given a lordship and the castle he’d always wanted. He declared for all the realm that he’d happily live his days as a bachelor, and the matter was settled. 

Until, out of curiosity or boredom, he poked around in his expenses and, shocked at the price of new steeds, proclaimed in typical Bronn fashion, that “keeping horses costs more than keeping whores.” 

Worked into a proper frenzy and taking it upon himself to investigate the matter, he rode out to the renowned horse farm supplying his castle. He faltered to find the surprisingly feisty - and surprisingly female – owner of the business as shrewd as she was fair. 

Lord Bronn failed to talk his way into a lower price and somehow managed to talk his way into a wife instead. 

Or she had done the talking. He never could be sure with her quick tongue. Not that he cared. She was smarter than he was, no sense denying it, and he was happy -- even if his bachelor-turned-lovefool tale gave his men a laugh at his expense. 

Sansa noticed Lord Bronn’s hand under the table, resting possessively on the knee of his new bride, as he laughed and drank. 

Jon suddenly caressed her arm and she turned back to him. He took hand and kissed it lightly. 

“You’d been married in the Sept and married by the godswood. I thought you would like to be married in the gardens, facing the sea, this time.” 

He was right. He knew her heart’s desire without her having to speak it aloud. Winterfell was her home, but there were too many recent memories there to have a happy wedding anytime soon. King’s Landing wasn’t much better, but if she must marry here, this was her favorite place to do so. 

Jon kissed her hand again, smiled widely in that way that showed the very backs of his teeth, and Sansa realized he was deep in his cups. Almost as if he tried to have more than he could handle. She titled her head, examining him. Nervous? Why? He’d charged solo into battle against terrible odds and worse foes. What could he possibly fear at his own wedding feast? 

#

Jon was drunk on the best of the Arbor gold, and he knew it was a bad idea, and he knew he was drunk enough to do it anyway. 

The guests were itching, shifting, ready for the bedding ceremony to begin. To strip a King and carry him off to his chambers wasn’t something that happened every day. He and Daenerys had been married under rather strained circumstances, with no wedding reception at all. By now, King’s Landing was eager to bed a king. 

He was counting on it. Because he needed the excuse. To her. To himself. 

“Lords and Ladies,” Jon announced, banging his cup on the table to call attention, and wobbling slightly as he stood. “I regret that there will be no bedding ceremony for my queen.” 

He read the disappoint in the expressions of the guests and paused before continuing. 

“Her grace will follow me -in her wedding dress- to our chambers now. But I offer myself on behalf of us both.”

Confusion painted the faces before him. He was being too vague. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words. Even through the wine, he felt embarrassed at the old custom.

Ser Davos took his meaning and shouted to the nearby tables, “bed the king!”

Ladies rose in unison and rushed at Jon in a titter of giggles, tearing at his clothes. They carried him forth like a wave, lifting his shirt, tugging at the ties on his breeches. That they were able to usher him along and pull the leg of his pants off his feet at the same time was nothing short of sorcery. 

In moments, he was back in his chambers, the swell of women now an ebbing wave, retreating to the door and leaving one standing alone, staring at him in his nakedness. 

Sansa. 

The door slammed, and she jumped a little. 

Sansa tried to look… 

Elsewhere, anywhere. Gods, she’d been out of her mind to like this plain room. _Give me a picture to study, a patterned rug, anything to keep my eyes from darting back…_

Too late. 

Her cheeks flamed. 

Her mouth parted, Jon could see she breathed heavy. 

Not as heavy as he. Naked, emboldened by wine. He said they could have a political marriage and he meant it. But by the gods, he had to try. She was too beautiful, not to try.

He loved her too much, not to try. 

What to say? What could make her understand? He was no courtier, no poet, no travelling bard. Jon was a man of action, not words.

But he needed to speak soon, because he was naked, in a room with Sansa, and his body was already saying something for him. 

“Sansa. I- I want to share with you my kingdom. My life, my heart.” Was that too sentimental? 

_My bed._

But that was obvious. Bloody wine made him a fool. He stepped forward, took her hand and laid it on his chest where his heart beat. That was better. She gave a sharp intake of breath, but allowed him to do so. 

“I ask only that you take it.” 

Sansa’s uncanny, light eyes rested on the space where her delicate hand lay. Slowly, she looked back up to meet Jon’s eyes and her breath caught. 

Noble, if such a thing could be said for eyes. Without guile, unguarded. Lacking treachery or cruelty, like the other would-be lovers she had gazed into before. 

She could see that in his eyes, and more. 

It wasn’t her brother that stood before her. It was the man who would do anything to protect her. The man who would change the world to give her what _she_ needed, not what _he_ needed, like so many others. The man who would lay himself bare, literally, before her, and ask only that she love him in return. 

“No one will ever marry me for love,” she whispered.

Jon furrowed his brow but before he could speak, she clarified. “It’s something I thought when I was a silly young girl.” 

“Sansa, I-”

She put her finger to his lips. 

“I know.”

She licked her own lips before continuing, nervous, and took a steadying breath. 

“All this time, Jon… I’m sorry, I couldn’t admit…” She shook her head, frustrated, but Jon’s heart sped at her words. 

“You’ve done this before. Not _this,_ I mean, but, all of it. Love isn’t something I’d had the fortune to learn. It’s true, I am a slow learner. But I do learn.”

It was the permission he needed. Jon cradled Sansa’s head in both his hands, drew her lips into a kiss as bold as the manner in which he took the battlefield. And then she knew. 

It mattered not. 

This was one instance where neither of them would mind the time it took to teach her.

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to comment with constructive critiques about what works or doesn't, what entertains or fails to. I appreciate any helpful feedback about what this fic does well (some things, I hope!) or what needs improving. Thank you!


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